Desires of the Heart
by RenaRoo
Summary: Cassandra's heart needed healing, something she found through healing another. [CassxOC]


red-dye-number-five: I believe this is six and as such the next to last prompt, yes? I'm really trying to fulfill the terms of our agreement, lol. I think the two remaining are both with Cass and I know that one of them is with Cass and her African dancer girlfriend. So, prompt six: Cass and her African dancer girlfriend.

So… since you didn't give me seven prompts, and I didn't do them all in a week anyway… neither of us win. That's what this comes down to, right? We just both have to buy our own damn sushi. Okay. I'll take that.

Batman and related properties © DC Comics  
story, Nicola © RenaRoo

 **Desires of the Heart**

With Bruce out of town on Batman Inc. business and with Damian currently enrolled in school, Dick has taken it upon himself to do rounds on all of his siblings scattered across the city. Some of his siblings require more attention than others, which his usual excuse for why he rounds Cass' apartment at Wayne Towers - really only a few floors away from his own - last.

He gets one knock in before the door opens and Cass is staring at him - hair sticking on end.

Dick is a mature adult. Which is the reason why he merely frowns at the fact that his equally adult younger sibling is answering the door in the nude and _not_ because the shock factor has surprisingly worn off over the past few years.

"Cass, we've talked about this," he says, voice only hinging on a whine. "What if I'd been, like, I don't know. Someone else."

She blinks tiredly at this and turns with a wave at him. Apparently she's still not recovered enough to use verbal words yet.

As she pads across her rather spacious pent house living room to the kitchen area, Dick closes the door securely and looks around. Alfred hasn't been here yet because Cass has made a disaster of the place.

Maybe he hasn't been there for a _few_ days because Dick counts two pairs of pants. Which is highly unlike the butler.

Then again, Cass is a difficult customer and it's highly likely that she went through her closet and threw things around the apartment for… _reasons,_ Dick's sure. She's getting something from her cabinets that looks like cereal and Dick takes that as an invitation to sit down for a while.

Cass is normally better at telling people to _leave_ than she is at asking them to stay. Which is an entirely different set of issues that need to be addressed before she truly becomes a mini-Bruce.

"Are you really always this grumpy? What happened to my sweet little sister who was always excited to see me stop by?" Dick asks before plopping down on the recliner, only for something to slip off the back and onto his shoulder as he rocks.

"Lived with Barbara," Cass replies as she pours milk. She hesitates, giving Dick a bizarre look.

He pulls the neon thong from his shoulder. "… _oh god!_ Cassie! Don't leave this shit everywhere!" he cries out throwing it.

The moment the underwear leaves his hand, he hears the platform upstairs creek outside of his sister's bedroom and Dick immediately leaps to his feet to face whoever came in - probably from Cass' balcony - only to see a tall, beautiful woman standing in drawstring pajama pants and tank at the top.

The woman smiles, coolly and confidently as she runs her fingers through her long braids. "Actually, I believe those are mine."

Dick blanches - turns to his sister who rubs at her face mid-yawn. He stares at her expectantly, but receives nothing.

 _"Cass!"_

She blinks and looks at him before nodding, as if she understands, and then looks up to the woman coming down the stairs. "Dick. He's my… _oldest_ brother."

Which, of course, doesn't address any of Dick's concerns at all.

The woman is taller than he is - _taller than Bruce probably my god_ \- and hair dreaded all the way down her back. She smiles and reaches a hand out to him.

"Nice to meet you, Dick," she says with a soft laugh at his no doubt horrified expression, "I am Nicola."

* * *

Black Bat's patrol route was still an undecided matter in the first several weeks after her return to Gotham.

It was glaringly obvious that the Birds of Prey had a specific area around Kord Tower and Oracle, very conveniently, would summon Black Bat to calls and emergencies in that vicinity. But, a little out of spite, the Bat answered those calls with speed and ferocity that she rarely afforded others. Always gone before another Bird could appear.

There was still a bitterness there that Black Bat was fighting, a little desperately, to soothe. She only knew that playing teams wasn't exactly in her agenda for inspiring that cool collectiveness.

There seemed to be a lot of people she was avoiding in Gotham - not living in the Manor but not living on the same floor as Dick and Damian of Wayne Towers, not spending much time with Tim and Steph outside of the capes - and even she was not foolish enough to overlook why.

There was an undressed wound from the still too-fresh abandonment she lived through. The emotional one. And no amount of reaching out now was going to make her forget that she grieved, alone, on the other side of the world for a year. And when she returned, she wasn't so sure there was any room for her.

She was beginning to remember long ago conversations with Barb - _Oracle_ \- about a life outside the cowl. About its necessity. About its comforts.

Black Bat just wasn't sure where to start with that suggestion when she noticed a tall, graceful woman walking down the street. She was dressed in a bright orange rain jacket and several layers of bracelets and necklaces that thickly rang together with her stride.

The two men vastly approaching her also caught Black Bat's eye, and she prepared to lunge from the rooftops when the one who grabbed for the woman's purse received a firm elbow to his nose. The other was taken aback long enough for the woman's large purse to be swung around and hit him over the head.

She yelled at them, but Black Bat could not distinguish the words.

Never once had the gazelle of a woman lost her pristine balance. She moved like a ballet which, as it turned out, was a perfect observation on the vigilante's part.

Black Bat's new patrol route fell on Cobble Hill, where Nicola Mutombo volunteered at the YMCA, and where Cassandra Cain began taking the bus to on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to take her classes.

* * *

"You have a wonderful eye for contemporary art, Miss Mutombo," Bruce says with an exaggerated swirl of his cocktail. He's putting on a show, one bigger than his usual one. It is his go to defense when someone is closer to things he would rather keep private.

His daughter is something he would rather keep private.

And it's becoming abundantly clear that _random sexual partners_ apparently wasn't high enough on his list of concerns for when she decided to move into an apartment on her own.

 _It hadn't even been on the list._

Dick had seemed so certain when he reported that Cass had a fling with a super model. Seeing the Congolese woman makes it stunningly obvious why he jumped to the conclusion about her occupation.

Cassandra is giving him the stink eye for his performance but Nicola Mutombo merely smiles coolly, confidently.

Irrationally, almost hysterically, Bruce wonders why a six foot three woman wears heels.

"I studied many forms of art at the Gotham Academy for the Arts, Mr. Wayne," she says. "It is one of the reasons they hired me on as an instructor."

"For interpretive dance," he continues, sipping idly. "How long ago was that?"

Cass swallows the entirety of her glass and then outright glares at him. She's in a mood. Brucie is making it worse.

Nicola laughs at the frankness, almost seems relieved by Bruce's obviousness. "It was ten years ago, thirteen after I received my green card, fifteen after my student visa." She smiles, all white teeth. "Do you want to know my 401k?"

"No," he responds lightly, slathering on his Brucie best. "I know what teachers are supposed to make."

Cassandra closes her eyes and takes a loud, deep breath before handing her empty glass to Nicola, getting Bruce's arm into a vice grip and yanking him away from the current exhibit hall the party is in.

Bruce goes along, dares to raise his brows in surprise when Cassandra rounds on him and, with tears in her eyes, hisses, _"Stop!_ Stop… _stop it._ Why. Why? You're so… _mean!"_

"She is more than fifteen years your senior, Cassandra," Bruce says with as stern of a look as he can muster.

He has never seen Cassandra cry. He knows she does, but never in front of him.

Putting her in tears was not something he wished to do tonight.

"I'm worried about you," he urges, reaching to put his hand on he shoulder only to have it smacked away.

Messily, not at all mindful of the makeup Bruce highly suspected she didn't put on herself, Cass rubs her face red, looks at him again. Her eyes are _burning_ with anger. "Don't! I like her."

"Like?" he asks, squaring himself toward her. _"Like_ isn't enough for the sort of relationship you're in."

"I don't… that word is…" Cass stops herself, rubs her face one more time. "This is mine. My life. I choose. This isn't… It's not _Batman_ who says what I do. It's… it's me. _Cassandra_ says. And I… _like_ her. Stop being… _Brucie,"_ she ends on a note of disgust.

"This isn't about Batman," he agrees, not sure how much his earnestness shows through his sternness. "This is about Bruce Wayne. And what concerns _Bruce Wayne_ has for his daughter."

Her eyes narrow. "Still. It's not your decision. It's _mine._ I _choose_ Nicola." She crosses her arms, defiant. "Don't… make me _not_ choose… _you."_

They stand, stubbornness hitting a solid wall of steel. They're both so sure of how right they are.

Bruce just wishes he could somehow make Cassandra _see_ what could be happening -

"I am sorry to interrupt," Nicola's voice rings out as she approaches from behind Bruce. He turns to see her looking concerned at Cass. "I… was hoping Cassandra could tell me where our coats are. It's getting late."

Cass sniffs indignantly and drops her arms to her side. "I… I'll get them. It's easier."

As Cass attempts to brush past them both, Nicola stops her, tips her chin up, and licks her thumb before gently, affectionately scrubbing at the smeared eyeliner around Cass' eyes.

When she finishes, Nicola lets Cass go, reluctantly, and merely follows Cass' glare when the girl shoots it at Bruce before continuing on.

Nicola looks at Bruce like he is a worm.

"Is it because I am a woman?" she asks, accent thick as she accentuates each word.

"No," Bruce says, keeping the surprise out of his voice. "It's because my daughter is vulnerable and I don't know your intentions."

"Because she has money," Nicola concludes, eyes narrowing. "I have worked and lived in this country for many years, Mr. Wayne. I am familiar with money. But I despise it. I would spit on it were it not for necessity. I do not care for your billions or your companies or your reasons for judging me so harshly. In my country, I survived for years in fear of men with power. But I only _lived_ once I was free of that fear. When I _chose_ to not be afraid."

She bent, eyes leering into Bruce's. "I do not fear your money and power, Mr. Wayne. Nor do I want any part of it. Cassandra is beautiful - her soul is rich and verbose. It speaks to me. And so do her scars. She has _many_ scars."

"She's had a hard life," Bruce says, suppressing any expression of how impressive he is finding this woman's display.

"Then that is why you shall understand neither of us," Nicola says, straightening up. "I want to be civil with you, Mr. Wayne. Cassandra loves you deeply. I pray to one day learn why."

With that, she turns and leaves in the direction Cassandra escaped to.

Bruce has never felt more like scum, nor has he ever felt more vindicated.

Nicola Mutombo is smart. _Dangerously_ smart. And Cassandra has never been one for keeping secret.

* * *

It had been weeks into the dance courses and Cassandra had merely nursed her crush on this woman. She was fascinated by the person she barely knew.

But she lingered in the back of the dance studio, wore the blandest attire, never spoke. She merely watched and breathed and learned about everything that was Nicola Mutombo.

It was fun. And thrilling. And every now and then Nicola's eyes would stay on her just a hair longer than the other students. And it felt… worth it. Somehow.

Cass had never felt true infatuation before - the way that nervousness built in her stomach, or the way it made noises disappear, lost to the ether as she was lost looking at Nicola's bridge and fan kick and lateral.

It was to the point that she was beginning to imagine what Nicola would do if Cass were to ask her for a private dance - something choreographed just for her.

Just the night those thoughts had become mind numbingly frequent, she saw Nicola on her regular route back home.

Black Bat watched her, casually, for only a few moments before turning back, knowing she had more important things to do on her patrol when she heard the clatter of feet and the thick thud followed by a grunt.

Heart racing, the vigilante returned to the edge of the rooftop before seeing a gang - two familiar from nearly a month before - surrounding the downed dance instructor. They had weapons. Their bodies moved disgustingly.

They didn't know what hit them.

She did not knock them out immediately. It was prolonged - not Black Bat's customary approach.

There was shocked screams and yelps cut off by her fists and knees and feet. She made it _hurt_ and she hoped it hurt even worse when they would wake up. It was pure ferocity. Unhinged fear. A _lesson._

By the time she stopped, the bodies of the men around her and remembered to check on the victim, the Bat found herself looking straight in the eyes of her dance instructor.

Nicola was already upright, sitting on the pavement. Her forehead was bleeding and her eyes were wide as dinner plates. But she didn't seem to be in shock. Not from the attack.

She was staring right through Black Bat.

"You're… the girl in my class," she whispered. "Cassandra…"

Black Bat froze, uncertain of what would come next - how her teacher even knew who she was.

As it turned out, Cassandra was not the only one with an appreciation for body language.

* * *

Tim's injuries are relatively minor all things considering. He knows he could probably make it to another safe house or even to the top floor of Wayne Towers where Alfred would be without passing out, but Cass' bedroom light is on.

He lands on her patio with a stumble, hits the glass door with his shoulder a bit harder than he would have liked.

By the time he catches his breath and nudges the slide door open, there's the sound of someone walking up the stairs and the door opens.

His greeting to his sister is on the tip of his tongue when he sees the silhouette and knows, definitively, that's _not_ his sister.

"Ah…. citizen," he rasps, reeling a bit. "I… would wish to ask for some assistance - "

 _Crap_. He wonders if he can blame the blood loss later when Bruce asks him about accidentally almost exposing their operation to the civilian none of them have really known what to do with since Cass brought her into their lives.

Nicola stares at him. "Which one are you?" she asks, eyes appraising him.

"R-Red Robin… there's a bathroom adjoined to this room," he begins to push his way toward it only to catch himself and mumble out, _"Right?"_

Before he knows what hits him, Tim feels his arm being slung around the Amazon of a woman's slender shoulders and she leads him toward the bathroom in question. He blinks but follows, finding his feet a bit numb.

"You're not the stupid one with guns are you?" she asks, pushing him onto the toilet seat and then propping him up against the wall. "No… too young. You're… Tim?"

Tim blanches. "Uh."

He blames the blood loss once more and allows Nicola to begin compressing the wounds with… honestly an odd amount of expertise without mentioning the use of his name. His actual name. Instead, he leans his head on the cool tile of the wall by his head as his sister's… _girlfriend,_ he supposes, gets to work on his shoulder wound.

"You bled on the door," Nicola is saying as she opens the alcohol. "Cassandra will see it on the way in. I will have to clean it up soon."

 _That_ Tim can't ignore.

He swears and closes his eyes. "So you _do_ know," he mutters. "Am I the first in the family to … know you know?"

"Cassandra knows," Nicola says with a smile in her voice even though she's turned from him. "I knew before we got together."

There's a moment as she preps the cotton swabs and iodine where Tim processes everything. This has been going on for a long time - longer than the few months since Dick walked in on this little hidden relationship.

Or, rather, this relationship that was so unexpected it lasted for months out in the open. Right under their noses.

 _World's greatest detectives._

"Cass never told me," Tim says, slowly, articulating past his tiredness. He watches as Nicola nears, drops to her knees, and begins working with his shoulder. "We… usually tell each other things. Or at least… that's what I thought."

She stops and looks at Tim, sadness very apparent in her face, and says, "She is always telling you. All of you. She tells you everything as openly as she has ever told anyone anything. When she is around any of you she is relaxed. She is motion. She is happy and sad.

"If you do not know Cassandra's mind, it is because you are not _looking_ for what she is saying."

Tim goes silent, watches as Nicola continues to stitch and clean up his wounds.

"You love my sister," he says, not a question.

"I adore her, I would hand her the stars," Nicola responds without hesitation. "Can you see it?"

He remains quiet for a moment, studious. He slowly nods. "Yes. I think I do." That pleases Nicola, she pats his hand and stands up. "Did she teach you how to dress these wounds?"

Nicola laughs, picks Tim up by his good arm and slings him around her shoulder. "She is a messy seamstress. No. I learned when I was young. I'm familiar with war."

"I'm sorry," he says genuinely as he is guided to Cass' bed and eased onto it.

"The only thing that concerns me in this matter," Nicola says, almost thoughtfully as she begins to remove his gauntlets and boots, "is that I leave my nation. I begin this life. All to escape war. And yet… I became the lover of a soldier. Is that not strange?"

Tim reaches up lazily, pushes his cowl off of his head, lets his hair breathe. He lays his head back and closes his eyes. "Not in Gotham. No. I guess not."

There's an uncomfortable silence. Tim swallows. Manages to open his eyes again and looks at Nicola.

"I'm just saying this as warning," Tim remarks, almost dutifully, "I think you're a pretty neat lady. Though I'm a few ounces of blood away from shock. But… I won't tolerate someone hurting Cass. Or anyone else in my family. I can fuck people up when I need to."

Nicola blinks before laughing.

"Then I accept my warning," she responds vigorously.

* * *

Cassandra sat on the floor of the dance studio, worried and anxious and uncertain.

These were not things she normally felt. And certainly not in regards to other people.

Nicola sat five or so feet away, legs drawn up close to her chest. Her knees were scabbed from the pavement and her head bruised from the hit that took her down to begin with. Had she not been so tall, the hit was hard enough to do much more damage.

It made Cassandra angry all over again. And that made her scared.

But not as much as the silence between her and Nicola.

"It is a secret," Cass explained, slowly. "Not only mine. Many people's. Like… we need… all of us. It has to be a secret. We're… connected."

"Like a house of cards," Nicola nodded. "I… yes. I understand secrets."

Cass felt heat rise to her cheeks, she bashfully looked to her lap. "You…. you remembered me."

"Of course I did," she laughed. "I have eyes. I … I saw the way you call out. In your dances. It was … different. You dance. But it is so… harsh. Cutting. Masterful. But also very hurt." Nicola tilted her head. "Are you hurt, Cassandra Cain?"

"No," Cass dismissed, sighing with her arms around herself. "I'm… lost. I need someone to… talk to. But without words."

Nicola was quiet, allowing Cass to work out what she meant.

"Can you dance for me?" Cass suddenly blurted out, looking desperately to the older woman. "I… I want to dance. Like you. Like singing a song without words. But… I don't know what I have to say when I do it. Yet. Maybe… maybe if I knew what you had to 'say' first… I could."

It was all nonsense, even to Cassandra's ears. Which was why she was taken aback when Nicola offered Cassandra her hand.

The smile on her face was genuine as Nicola said, "We should dance _together."_

* * *

Nicola steps into her office, a little sweaty and worked up after a day of instruction, and only jumps a _little_ to see Cassandra sitting in one of her office chairs.

"I still have a few more hours," Nicola laughs, rounding her desk.

"I know," Cass says, and there's something strangely determined about her face.

Stopping for a moment, Nicola hesitates. She looks more directly at her partner. "Is something… wrong?"

"No…" Cass breathes before looking at Nicola. "I… _love_ you."

Nicola blinks a few times before laughing, touching her heart in surprise. "You don't have to say that. I know."

Cass smiles coyly, eyes shining. "I know. But I _wanted_ to."


End file.
